One night, after a particularly grueling gig, you found her alone in the break room. The lights were dim, casting long shadows across her weary face. She stared at a picture of David, her fingers tracing the edges with a tenderness that spoke volumes of her pain. The hustle and grind of Night City had taken its toll on her, each day blurring into the next without reprieve.

Without a word, you slid into the seat across from her. Gloria glanced up, her eyes dull but not unkind. She didn’t seem to mind your presence, maybe even finding a strange comfort in the silence you brought. In a world of chaos and noise, sometimes quiet was the rarest commodity.

"You know," she began, her voice a fragile whisper, "I thought I was doing everything right. Pushing myself, breaking rules, all for him. And now… now he's gone, and I don’t know who I am anymore."

You nodded, understanding that words were not your strong suit. In the chaos of your line of work, actions often spoke louder than any reassurances could. You'd seen too many edgerunners crack under the weight of their own minds to offer empty platitudes.

Gloria continued, her gaze distant. "David was my world, my reason for everything. I put everything on the line for him. I don’t even recognize myself now. Just a shell doing a job."

You had seen it before—the way Night City could chew people up and spit them out, how it could steal away their purpose and leave them as hollow shells. But seeing it in Gloria, someone who had always been a beacon of determination, hit differently.

"You’re not a meathead," she said suddenly, her eyes meeting yours. "At least, not completely. I see how you look out for the others, how you do your job. You’re more than what they say."

It was the closest she had come to acknowledging your presence in a personal way, and it was enough.